Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 79

JAX'S POV

Saturday bled into Sunday....too fast, too easy. Xander had told me to stay, and God, it was tempting. The way he’d said it, casual but not careless, like he really wanted me there. I could have folded, could have let myself sink into his space for another night.

But I didn’t. I’d told him I had work to get to. Left it vague. Didn’t specify what, and he didn’t press, though I could see the question flicker behind his eyes. Disappointment, yes. But also this quiet optimism that caught me off guard, like he was already imagining next time. That look lingered with me longer than his kiss goodbye.

It was good, what we had that weekend. Too good. And that’s what made me leave. My head doesn’t know what to do with good. It twists it, marks it as a warning, a sign the ground will give way sooner rather than later. Comfort feels like bait in a trap. And even though I’d sworn to him, sworn on that sharp edge of his stare, that I’d cut out the fighting, I ended up at The Pit again. Couldn’t help it. I wasn’t drinking much, barely touched a smoke, so I needed something, anything, to bleed the static out. Fighting is the only thing that shuts my head off, even when it wrecks the rest of me. It’s fucked, but it’s the way I’m wired.

Still, I kept my word on the one thing that mattered most to him, keeping contact. I didn’t vanish. Xander didn’t hold back either. He texted and called like it was second nature, like ignoring me had never been his favorite game before. And every time his name lit my phone, it caught me in the chest, a little shock that maybe I wouldn't ruin this.

I wanted to ask him what exactly he saw in me. I wanted to ask him if he knew how hard it was for me to stay, even harder to leave. But instead, I kept my mouth shut and typed back replies that always felt smaller than what I meant because saying too much was a risk.

The elevator hums, I’m stuck on Xander’s last text on my way up to my apartment. Tribal lines, sharp and curling on my screen. He’d asked what I thought, and I’m not great with handing out compliments. They stick in my throat like broken glass. But I can feel him waiting for it, his anticipation bleeding through the little blinking bubble. So I give him what he wants, rough-edged but true. "Looks good."

And because I don’t know what to do with honest softness, I grab for territory I know.

"Your shop got a policy on dick tattoos?"

His answer comes fast...like he’d been expecting me to twist it filthy.

"That’s just your way of trying to get my hands on you again."

I smirk at the screen, leaning into the elevator’s wall, then I tell him of course it is. And because I want to push him further, make him picture it, I type, "I'll give you artistic privileges. You could tattoo your name on it. That way all I’d need to do to get hard is look at it."

The dots appear, he’s typing. I can already tell it’s going to be long, hopefully filthy, and something I’ll end up replaying in my head tonight. The elevator dings, doors sliding open, and I walk out on instinct, eyes glued to the screen like it’s oxygen. My feet carry me down the hall, the same path I’ve walked a thousand times. I’m not even looking where I’m going.

Then a voice cuts through. Smooth and familiar, too familiar. A voice I wasn’t expecting tonight, or any night, not anymore.

" What's got you so caged in on that screen like nothing else matters?"

The sound stops me dead. I freeze mid-step, breath sticking in my chest like a blade. Slowly, I look up.

And there he is.

Nathan Risk.

Leaning casual as sin against my apartment door, like time never dragged us apart. His green eyes catch the low light, bright and alive, mischievous like they always were. His brown hair’s longer now, falling into his face, messy in that deliberate way. He’s all sharp lines and loose edges, denim torn, boots scuffed, mouth twisted in a smile that hasn’t aged a day. Still that wild child.

He pushes off the doorframe, standing to his full height, that grin widening like this is just a natural reunion. “Hi, Jax.”

My throat goes dry. My phone is still in my hand, screen glowing between us, but I can’t move. I just stare at him, like he’s a ghost that decided to crawl out of my memory and into my hallway.

A part of me wants to speak, but my voice is gone, buried somewhere between disbelief and the rush of old bruises that start aching all at once.

Eventually, I finally find my voice, though it comes out rougher than I want.

“What the hell are you doing here, Nate?”

He grins like I just asked him if he wanted a beer. “What, a guy can’t decide to drop by and check in on an old friend?” His green eyes flicker, quick, sharp. “You kept ignoring my calls. Had to make sure you hadn’t gotten your spine snapped in that little fight club of yours and ended up learning wheelchair tricks instead.”

My jaw tightens. I shove my phone into my pocket, the buzz of a new message humming against my thigh.... Xander. And every part of me wants to pull it back out, read whatever he wrote, feel that tug in my chest again. But I don't.

“Do your brothers know you’re here?” I ask, my hand finding the keys in my pocket, metal biting my fingers.

He tilts his head, scratches at the back of his neck with exaggerated innocence. “Not sure if I mentioned it or not.”

Of course not. If there’s one thing about the Risk brothers, it’s that they’re drawn to trouble the way moths dive headfirst into flames. Always chasing it, always leaving chaos in their wake. No chance Nate just happened to drop by.